The Ace Advantage
by PreludeInZ
Summary: Being a sequel to An Elegant Escapade, concerning the friendship between John and Penelope, and the additional dimension of similar between Gordon and Kayo.


Creighton-Ward Manor has guestrooms to spare, even when there are seven guests in total. It's probably just a coincidence that John's room happens to face the tennis court; that the high, white-mullioned window seems as though it's aligned perfectly with the center line, neat and bright and pointed straight at him.

The tennis court did not exist a week ago.

John's checked. Initially he'd just doubted his memory—it's been a long time since he last had occasion to actually visit Creighton-Ward Manor, and the fact that he didn't remember a tennis court may not have meant anything at all. But he'd gone back over the satellite footage, just on a hunch, and had been surprised when he only need to step it back by about a week to see the blank patch of lawn, now occupied by a regulation tennis court, neatly bounded in by perfectly trimmed hedges.

The freshness of the painted lines should've been his first clue, probably. Or maybe the fact that Penelope had made a very specific point of inviting the entire family for a visit in the first place. That's not entirely out of the normal, but generally Penelope saves her bulk invitations for later in the year, to provide a sort of surrogate winter for the Tracy family, confined as they are to an island in the subtropics, and lacking a great deal of seasonal variation as they do.

They also lack the sort of space that would be devoted to a tennis court, back home, although a tennis court is certainly the sort of thing that they might be expected to have, a standard accoutrement of the ultrarich. Instead they have an Olympic-sized swimming pool, which may or may not be redundant, considering they live in the middle of the South Pacific. But his brother is a gold medal Olympian for swimming, whereas John's only sort of a vaguely talented amateur at tennis, and not often home besides. So he's not especially bothered by the fact that they have a swimming pool instead of a tennis court.

So even if it's only a week old, and even if it he's just happened to notice it, initially John doesn't make particular note of the fact that Penny's had a tennis court put in. It's the sort of thing the English aristocracy might be expected to have. He's only even seen it in the first place because he happened to catch a glimpse of it outside his bedroom window. John plays, certainly, but he hasn't played since college. Specifically, he hasn't played since Oxford. Now that he thinks of it, the last time he played tennis, he played with Penny.

The neatly folded and pressed set of tennis whites on the quilted bedspread are slightly less subtle. The tennis racket leaning against the bedside table looks suspiciously like the one he'd played with in college, nearly six years ago now.

As he picks it up, attempting to approximate something like fond nostalgia, the door of the wardrobe in the corner of the room pops open and Penelope unfolds herself from inside it, and just about gives John a heart attack.

"Oh, _do_ calm down, John," Penny chides, in answer to his rather undignified yelp, as though it's John's fault for not expecting that she would be lying in wait in the wardrobe. Her hands smooth over her immaculate white skirt, its pleats so sharply creased that her hands should come away bloody. Her shirt is similarly pristine, pure, snowy white, ruched in the front in a way that flatters her petite figure. Her wrists are bare of their usual gold adornments, and instead she's got a pair of terry cloth sweatbands. The gleam in her eyes is the sort that belongs to the kind of person who lurks in wardrobes as a matter of course.

She also seems absolutely unimpressed by the fact that he'd been about to hit her in the face with his tennis racket, not that he expects he would've actually managed it.

"_What_ are you—_what_—_why_?" John demands, lowering the racket and glaring down at the Lady Penelope; dear friend, cherished companion, frequent and insistent intruder into the depths of John's private life.

"Because I didn't want your brother to see me coming in here," Penelope answers pleasantly, and crosses the room to pick up the shirt she's laid out for him on the bed. She gives him a critical once over, then holds it up to measure it against his torso, frowning slightly as she tugs at the shoulders of the white polo. She tuts softly for some reason he can't perceive, and then tosses it aside. "You're always broader across the shoulders than I remember, but never mind, this will do. Do you still serve right-handed?"

John's still snagged on the first point, though as Penelope picks up a pair of tennis shorts that suggest that she doesn't remember the length of his legs, either, he makes a note to make sure he points _that_ out. "None of my brothers think you and I are _a thing_. No one's thought that in _forever_, so who cares if you're seen coming in here? It's your damn house. _Everybody_ knows we're just friends." His brain catches up to the end of the question and he adds "And…I don't know, probably? Is that something that changes? I haven't played in _years_, Penelope."

Penelope rolls her eyes and crosses the room again, this time to prudently ensure that the door is solidly closed. "Not your _brothers_, your _brother_. Gordon. I put him in the room at the end of the hall and I can't chance him seeing me in here. I need your help."

"With _what_?"

Her answering smile is the sort of perfectly wicked expression that John's all too familiar with. It belongs to the version of Penelope that plots and schemes and pops out of wardrobes. It flashes up when she looks at the world around her, or more accurately the unfortunate people inhabiting it, and comes to the conclusion that she's been _wronged_ in some way, and that the only course available is to enact vicious, bloody vengeance. Her hands clasp together before her, fingers interlacing in a manner that's almost prayerful. She's all purity and piety and sweetness and light as she answers, "Why, John, dearest. We're going to _murder_ the little bastard."

* * *

The trouble had started, as trouble so frequently does, with Gordon. Because Penelope had said something, and Gordon had _laughed_.

Kayo sits cross-legged at the foot of her (four poster, canopied) bed, and watches a tennis ball popping up towards the vaulted ceiling, and then back down again. Gordon's lying flat on his back on the floor of her room, and she's not sure where he came by the tennis ball or why he's throwing it at the ceiling. It's almost a full twelve feet, straight up and back down again, and each and every time, her brother catches it without the slightest break in rhythm.

It's this sort of easy, casual athleticism that's gotten Gordon in this predicament in the first place. The fact that this is a quality that she and Gordon share is what has him trying to recruit her to his cause.

He's made his case, and he's made it seem pretty compelling, but there's a major problem with his proposal. Actually there are several, but one in particular stands out in Kayo's mind. She reaches out and snatches the ball out of midair, sandwiches it between her palms as Gordon sits up.

"You _do_ realize that I don't actually know how to _play_ tennis, Gordon?"

Gordon isn't concerned, and he breaks into a grin. "Ping pong, but bigger."

"I didn't think _you_ played tennis, either."

Gordon shrugs. "How hard can it be? If Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward thinks _she's_ good enough at the game to merit putting in her own damn tennis court, then you better believe I'm gonna make her _prove it_."

The timeline of events, as far as Kayo's been able to determine, started with a call between Penelope and Gordon, a few weeks back. The pair of them had both been occupied with fairly tedious elements of their respective occupations—an eighteen-hour stakeout in Belarus and the careful rehabilitation of a slowly rallying coral reef, respectively—and to hear Gordon tell it, they were just chatting to pass the time. Lady Penelope had idly mentioned that she was thinking of having a tennis court put in.

And Gordon had laughed.

Because—he had told Kayo, just the same as he'd told Penelope—it's a ridiculous affectation. A _tennis court_. Who did she propose to play with, anyway? He couldn't even imagine any of her society friends wanting to work up a sweat or risk breaking a nail, bounding back and forth after fuzzy neon balls. Specifically—well _maybe_, anyway, he doesn't actually quite remember, but the point is she'd _definitely_ overreacted—he _might've_ said "what the hell would _you_ want with a tennis court?" It's possible that the emphasis laid on the _you_ had been a rather disparaging sort. It's possible he'd made some comment about Sherbet getting more use out of it than Penelope would. It's possible these remarks were poorly received.

Penelope had frostily informed him that she had played in college, and that lately she'd found herself missing it and in want of some vigorous exercise. Gordon, occasionally capable of misreading signals utterly and entirely, had pointed out that her college career was _six years ago_, and that the whimsical and nostalgic want of a tennis court was only going to result in a great deal of wasted clay, for skills that had likely turned to so much more powdery red dust.

"Because women just _love_ to be condescended to about their hobbies and interests," Kayo comments dryly, and drops the tennis ball back down, attempts to bounce it off Gordon's face. He's too quick, catches it before it hits his nose, and grins at her. Of all her adopted brothers, Gordon's the nearest to her own age, only a few weeks her elder. Still. There are certain subjects upon which Kayo is infinitely the wiser. "And why should she have to prove anything at all to _you_, exactly?"

Gordon has the audacity to frown and wave a finger at her. "Oh, no no no. _No_. No, you're not making _me_ into the asshole here, Kay. _She _started it. She went ahead and had the damn thing put in just to prove a point. _She_ sent me a picture, before the paint was even dry, and _she_ said, _and I quote_, 'you're welcome to consider the gauntlet thrown'. A week later she invites the whole family out to visit. So, we're here. _Gauntlet thrown_. It's only gentlemanly to pick it up."

For all that they have athleticism in common, Kayo's not nearly as competitive as Gordon. Or, if she's competitive at all, then it's somehow in a vastly different way. Competition, for Gordon, is a matter of scorched earth obliteration. He prefers his games to be of the zero-sum sort, with a a clearly delineated winner and loser. It's not that he's a _sore_ winner, exactly, as much as it is that he's an infrequent loser, and hasn't ever really learned the grace to go with it.

Her own competitions, or at least the ones that matter most, are mostly with herself. Right now, at least as far as tennis is concerned, she'd be no kind of competition for anybody. And she doesn't understand why her involvement is necessary in the first place, but Gordon had snuck across the hallway into her room before she could even start get get unpacked, and announced that he had a proposition for her.

"So why can't you just play a few games with her? If the gauntlet's been thrown, clearly she's ready and willing." _And clearly she intends to kick your ass up and down the court, and as much as I'd like to be a participant, I think it would be just as fun to be a spectator._ This is a thought Kayo thinks, but not one she expresses aloud. "What do you need _me_ for?"

"Well, otherwise it wouldn't be fair! Men's and women's tennis. Tennises. They don't mix, _unless_ its mixed doubles. Only way for it to balance out." He grins a wicked sort of grin, "D'you know, I think she's gonna partner up with _John_?"

"So?"

Gordon scoffs, "_John_. You know, my big brother, John? Tall, gangly critter? Lives about eighty percent of his life in space? About as coordinated as a newborn baby giraffe? Only been on Earth for about forty-eight hours, still hasn't got his land legs back? Even if Penelope _does_ know her way around a tennis court, John for a partner is a _liability_, not an asset."

"Does _John_ know how to play tennis?"

Gordon waves this away as an irrelevant detail. "So what if he does? John walked face first into the patio door on the way back into the house before we headed down to the hangar this morning. John occasionally comes downstairs with his shoes on the wrong feet. I could beat John at tennis, blindfolded, with one hand tied behind my back and standing on one foot. It's _Penelope_ I wanna see on the court, and the only way that's gonna happen—fair and square—is if you and me pair off against him and _her_."

Kayo begins to suspect that this is not actually about the tennis. She wonders if John's been press-ganged in a similar fashion—wonders if he realizes just what exactly this _is_ about, if it's not actually about tennis. Knowing John, probably not.

And knowing Gordon, he's not going to take no for an answer. So it's not the answer she gives him.

"All right," Kayo says, and unfolds herself from the foot of the bed, stands up and stretches. "But you have to _promise me_ that this is just going to be a few friendly games of tennis, Gordon. Don't take this too far, for your own damn sake."

Gordon bounces to his feet, with the sort of grin Kayo's seen from him before, the kind he employs when he doesn't think anything could possibly go wrong. "Please," he answers, as casual and unconcerned as only an absolute fool can be, "it's not like she's gonna turn this into a personal vendetta or anything. It's _just _tennis."

* * *

"This is a _vendetta_, John. This is not _just_ tennis. This is _war_."

In John's opinion this is probably unnecessarily strong language for the situation at hand, but then, Penelope's been _insulted_.

John still hasn't gotten the particulars of just what exactly the insult _was_, but Penelope insists that there was one, and apparently the insult in question is ninety-percent of the reason she's had a tennis court put in.

There's also the objective fact that insults are just a part of Penelope's native dialect. She breaks off from her muttered declarations of war against his brother to slip back into her natural speaking voice, "Darling, honestly, do you happen to know if your bare torso is visible from space? I've England's climate as an excuse for the fairness of _my_ complexion, but I do believe you might actually approach incandescence."

One learns to listen around this, and in fairness, she says it as she kneels on the bed behind him and continues to apply SPF 75+ to his shoulders and the back of his neck, because he's long since learned that he can't be too careful when it comes to sun exposure, even on a vaguely overcast day in England, even beneath tennis whites. "I don't know if I've ever successfully been able to explain to you just how quickly I can get a sunburn. And when I was twenty-three, _you_ told me that freckles make me look like a twelve-year-old."

"Because they do," Penelope agrees placidly, and smears a palmful of icy cold sunscreen across his left shoulder blade, and then tuts at him disapprovingly when he shivers. "I _suppose_ this is the least I could do, considering you've very kindly agreed to help me murder your brother."

"To beat my brother at tennis."

"To _murder_ your brother at tennis."

"And why exactly do you need to _murder_ my brother at tennis, again?"

"Because _he_ doesn't think I _can_," Penelope answers, and John knows her well enough to know the steel in her tone, her utter and absolute determination not to let such an insult pass. Except—

College, Oxford, and the year he'd done overseas getting a linguistics degree, over half a decade ago. He and Penelope had made friends then, and have been friends since. When Penelope had played tennis, he'd been the one to play with her. And they'd been…fine. They'd played recreationally, just for fun and to get some exercise and because it had been nice to have something to do together as partners. But John would never have labeled tennis as a _passion_, not for either of them. They'd played against each other as often as they'd played together against others, and even then, John wouldn't have called Penelope competitive.

And while it might be an insult for Gordon to point this out, John's one of Penelope's closest friends, and therefore has the license to comment, "Well, but Penelope, I kinda don't think you can either? It's been…what, it's been _six years_ since college? Have you even picked a racket up since then?"

Penelope tosses her hair, as sure an indicator as any of when she's about to disregard someone else's interpretation of reality. "Once or twice. But it's like riding a bicycle, John, it's not as though one forgets _how_. As a counterpoint, has _he_ ever even picked up a tennis racket to begin with?"

There's probably something John should notice about the heat with which Penelope refuses to use his brother's actual _name_—but he's never been very good at that sort of thing, and remains focused on the practical problem more immediately at hand. "I don't know if it really matters—I mean, the game's not complicated. It's just ping pong, writ large, and Gordon's got the whole 'natural athlete' thing. And if he partners with _Kayo_—"

"I'm _entirely_ certain he will."

"—then _she's_ not exactly worth dismissing either. Gordon swims like ten miles a day. Kayo could probably bench press _me_ if she wanted to. Penny, the pair of them kickbox _for fun_."

"If either of them kick you, I think it probably constitutes a forfeiture of the game."

"I think that might be the only way we could _win_."

Penelope sighs dramatically, and drapes her arms around him from behind, deceptively affectionate. "My darling, your brother is a cocky, overconfident, weaselly little shrew. I can't bear the thought of letting this lesson pass him by."

This is a list of objective facts about Gordon, but equally these are things about Gordon that John's learned not to try and change. But he's had the full quarter century of his little brother's lifetime to grow accustomed to him. Penelope's only had a measly half-decade, and it's possible that things like this just can't be taught, except by object lesson. It's possible that Penelope's going to be the one learning it. It's more than possible that John might like to see that happen.

"Okay, Pen," he agrees, reaching up to pat the hand she has still resting against his collarbone. She probably mistakes it for affection and not preemptory sympathy. She should know him better by now. "Let's get this show on the road."


End file.
